


A Royal Steed

by an_english_girl



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 07:57:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11847282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_english_girl/pseuds/an_english_girl
Summary: Attolian Royal family fluff, with Gen’s “pet” dislike.





	A Royal Steed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chocolatepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocolatepot/gifts).



“She _has_ to learn to ride,” said the Queen of Attolia firmly.  
“She doesn’t like horses,” said the King of Attolia languidly.  
The Princess of Attolia let out a startled squeak and took refuge behind her father.  
The very short, chubby pony which was the cause of the discussion drew back its head from trying to sniff its intended rider and let out a ‘Hrumph!’ of disappointment.  
The queen persisted. “She _has_ to learn to ride.”  
“Why?” said the king.  
Irene gritted her teeth. The question was deliberately provoking; in fact, Eugenides in entirety was being deliberately provoking, from his languid verbal opposition of everything she said, to the infuriating way he was slowly revolving as princess and pony wound clockwise about him. She ignored the question. “ _You_ learned to ride.”  
For a moment, he seemed to consider this. “True.” He turned slowly, from the side that had the pony to the side that had the princess, and looked down. “Are you going to infiltrate an enemy stronghold and whisk their monarch away, Plutia?”  
“You are _not_ helping!”  
“I am-” The king rotated once more, as the pony made a slightly speedier attempt at sniffing the princess.  
“She _has_ to learn to ride!” Irene hissed. “It doesn’t matter that you have taught her to swim and to read and climb trees and manage a very small dinghy and I don’t want to know what for getting about the palace! None of those will take her on state visits or to inspect her estates! She has to learn to ride, and all you are doing is passing on your dislike of horses! And-” she added, as it looked as if Eugenides might be about to argue back, “if she doesn’t like this pony, we have a diplomatic incident as well! You can’t have the Braels as our chief allies among the Greater Powers, and then tell them the ponies they sent are no good!”  
“Nikos likes his,” said Eugenides placidly.  
An exasperated sigh escaped Irene. It was true. Their son liked, or rather, passionately adored his one of the two ponies which had been the gift of the Braelings to mark the Attolian royal twins’ fourth birthdays. His enthusiasm was so boundless and hound-puppy-ish Irene suspected it might well be contributing to his sister’s hesitation – hence her idea of today’s quiet session, with only Eugenides and Plutia and herself, to get to acquainted with the pony without Nikos.  
She caught another sigh before it escaped. It had been a joy, the day Galen had diagnosed that she was carrying twins: to know that the gods had, after all, sent them two children; to know that this child would not come into the world lonely and mourning the one who had never lived. But the twins were so utterly unalike. Nikos, the elder by eighteen minutes, seemed in size to be eighteen months older – and every inch of him seemed to be composed of Irene’s most exuberant memories of her brother. When Nikos thought of something to say, he said it at once. When Nikos thought of something to do, he did it at once – or since the arrival of the Braels’ gift, as near to at once as could be combined with his pony. In the last two days, this had included the idea of jumping the lower hedges in the palace gardens. That was a problem, but just at the moment, as Plutia squeaked yet again, Irene wished it was a problem they had with their daughter too. All this quiet session seemed to be doing was correcting her view that Nikos had been the off-putting one.  
Irene pursed her lips. Indulgence and discussion were not going to get them anywhere. “Stop rotating!”  
“But-”  
Irene snatched the reins and snapped them to bring the pony to attention before Eugenides could let out any more of the whine about getting wound up. The Braeling ambassador had been quite right in saying that the ponies were well trained and ideal for beginners, for it stopped at once. “Hold them,” she said firmly, thrusting the reins back at her husband and stepping round him to Plutia. “On you get.”  
At least Plutia did not whine. She was lifted up, had her feet tucked into stirrups, her hands arranged on the saddle horn, her hair brushed back out of her face, without a murmur. “Hold on,” Irene commanded, and snapped the leading rein once more. “Walk on!”  
Obediently, the pony walked. Irene walked carefully ahead, her back rigid against the next unhelpful comment that would soon, inevitably, be coming. She was not going to listen! There would be no more nonsense! They would go to the end of the courtyard, and then–  
“You can’t teach someone to like something by putting them on it,” called the voice behind her.  
They would go to the end of the courtya-  
“You still don’t like sailing.”  
They stopped. Eugenides wasn’t looking at her with the provoking smirk she had expected, but at the pony and its rider. Irene followed his gaze. Apart from the snub rather than broken nose, Plutia was the image in miniature of the Queen of Eddis: the short build, the dark curls, the plain face with the smile which won the hearts of everyone she turned it on. But on a pony – Irene could not stop the sigh escaping. Far from any polecat-like smile, Plutia on a pony was a picture of dutiful obedience and abject unhappiness. Whispers of the shadow princess tapped at Irene’s memory. She might have wanted different things, but she was doing the same thing to their daughter.  
“Not today, then,” she gave in, knowing that her voice was failing to sound unweary as she lifted Plutia off the pony.  
Eugenides walked over to them. “She doesn’t like horses,” he observed, quite unnecessarily. He raised his hand to Irene’s shoulder and turned her sharply round. “The reins,” he said, as she glared.  
Irene looked down. He was right, of course. Plutia and the pony had resumed their circling flight and pursuit, this time winding the reins around her own legs. Irene raised her voice. “Iolanthe!” To have a groom on hand would have been better, but Irene had really not wanted to endure the even greater performance Eugenides would have put on with an audience. Her own attendants at least knew him for something of what he was. Whining, complaining, provoking, infuriating … they knew all that – although the stunt of tossing Plutia up in the air as though he didn’t have only one hand and a leather-sheathed hook to catch her with was a new one.  
Iolanthe, predictably, winced, even as the king caught the princess as easily as he might have tossed a coin and swung her back to ground level. “We’re done,” he announced, easily, almost with glee, as if the entire afternoon had gone perfectly instead of being an utter waste of time.  
“For today,” Irene conceded, handing over the reins. “She still needs to learn to ride.”  
Eugenides sent Plutia flying upwards again. “But she doesn’t like horses.”  
~:~:~  
There the matter stuck. For the next week, it seemed to Irene as if she met the Ambassador of the Braels at every turn of the palace. Each time, it seemed as if he bowed politely and complimented Prince Nikos’ talent in riding.  
“The Princess is finding hers still a little – large,” Irene offered eventually, when she met the Ambassador on her way to the afternoon audience session. Of course the Braels wanted to know how their gifts were getting on! And-  
“Ah.” Yorn Fordad bowed politely once more. “A smaller horse could have been had, but it would not have been so – steady.” He smiled. “The name of the horse – Pudda – in old Braeling, it means ‘cushion’.”  
Pudda certainly resembled a cushion on four very short legs, but it didn’t seem to endear him to Plutia. Or Eugenides, Irene reflected, as she took her seat beside him on the dais. And it was only going to be so long before the princess’ and king’s dislike of the pony caused offence and coolness and a thousand other troubles...  
It was only halfway through the session when the king raised his hand. “You must excuse me,” he said, turning to Irene. “I have another appointment.”  
He what?!?  
“Another appointment,” Eugenides repeated, as if she’d spoken the question. “A riding lesson. For Plutia.”  
He was speaking quietly – of course. Just quietly enough that the entire court could hear him and the suddenly warmed temperature of approval and satisfaction from the Braeling contingent could be felt by everyone.  
Irene restricted herself to a raised eyebrow. “And I am not invited to witness these – lessons?”  
“Plutia wishes to surprise you,” said the king calmly, administering a brief and courteous kiss to her cheek. “I’m sure you can finish the business here.”  
As he had been adopting one of his half-asleep poses, Irene was sure she could. But – the rest of it was nonsense. Irene schooled her face straight and raised her hand for the next baron. A riding lesson? Plutia _wishing_ to ride? It was as likely as Baron Rhonus was likely not to be tiresome.  
The baron, of course, was tiresome.  
~:~:~  
It was, Irene felt, like being back in the early days of their marriage. The barons were being tiresome, albeit in a small and petty way rather than treasonous; Eugenides was up to something; and there was nothing she could do but wait. And while Eugenides _had_ changed Teleus’ mind, and _had_ won the loyalty of the Guard, and _had_ controlled his attendants, and _had_ exposed and destroyed the Mede navy, and all other such things – Irene didn’t like admitting that the detectable presence of an unknown scheme, while in progress, made her nervous. However small and cushion-like it might be.  
It was useless to ask Eugenides himself. She did ask Phresine. Since the twins had outgrown sleeping in her own apartments, they had moved into the adjacent queen’s quarters, under the supervision of Phresine. If anyone ought to know what the princess was doing every afternoon, she should.  
Phresine’s face assumed the pleasant and unhelpful expression Irene had seen her turn on the king so many times. “His Majesty is teaching Her Royal Highness to ride,” she said calmly. “His Majesty asked me not to tell you more than that, Your Majesty.”  
It was not reassuring. But it was at least something to counteract the admittedly unjust suspicion that Eugenides was simply using it as an excuse to get out of each afternoon’s audience. That was unjust, untrue, unfair – Irene knew all that. But that didn’t stop the stab of suspicion when Eugenides excused himself before the most tiresome baron every afternoon.  
She tried calling the most tiresome case early. Eugenides left early. She tried putting them off as late in the audience as was possible without offending a baron for hearing him after the okloi. Up to a point, Eugenides stayed, but if it was too long, he would call the baron himself and then walk out without hearing him. After a month, a very long month, Irene steeled herself and left Baron Rhonus and his long-running irrigation dyke mending problems until last.  
The king stayed, and stayed, and stayed. Every other item of business was dealt with. Irene moved to summon Rhonus forwards. Eugenides laid his hand on hers. “I think Baron Rhonus’ case requires more detailed attention. A private audience tomorrow morning would be better.”  
The baron swelled with importance. Hilarion drew out the parchment on which he recorded the king’s appointments. And the king rose. “The Queen and I have an appointment with the Princess.”  
The appointment did not, apparently, involve the stable courtyard, or the smaller riding yard, or anywhere near the stables at all: the king led the way briskly along the route to the main palace and gardens. Nor did it apparently involve his attendants. At the turn to the gardens, the king stopped. “Ion, tell the guards we are coming. The rest of you, go away.”  
“And my entourage?” Irene asked as Ion scuttled and the other attendants retreated without a murmur.  
“Oh, they can come with us,” said the king, stepping forwards to lead the way again. “Part-way.”  
Part-way turned out to be to a small solarium near the main gardens, where a dozen chairs had been set out. “This will do,” said Eugenides as casually as if he hadn’t – as he must have – arranged for the chairs to be there. He lifted the latch on a small door to the side. “Your Majesty, this way.”  
“Do tell me why I should take the service passageway to my own gardens?” Irene enquired coolly, as he steered her through the narrow doorway and around the corner of the passage.  
A smile teased at the corners of his mouth. “Because Plutia wishes to surprise you.”  
The sunlight at the garden doorway was blinding after the dimness of the passageway. Irene blinked rapidly for a moment, the world nothing but flashes of bright light and green bushes – and a sudden, low whistle from Eugenides behind her.  
What-?  
Hooves. Children’s laughter. The neigh of a pony. And the bleat of – a goat?!?  
Irene looked back over her shoulder so fast her neck cricked. If he was trying to drive her to apoplexy-!  
“Not me,” said Eugenides, turning her head back to the garden. “Plutia.”  
“Mama! Mama!”  
Now she blinked slowly – once, twice, thrice. For two children sat “in the saddle” before her, both beaming at the arrival of their mother. Nikos was carelessly astride Pudda, not his own pony. And Plutia – Plutia sat triumphantly astride a large, bridled and saddled, goat.  
“Helen sent it,” said Eugenides softly behind her. “I asked her for the largest, friendliest wether in all of Eddis. We could have been quicker,” he added, as Irene turned to look at him, “but I had to train it first.”  
_He had – to train – the goat –_  
It was, as ever, with one of Eugenides’ surprises: Irene could feel her mind staggering, quite beyond coherent and reasoned thought. Somewhere, amidst the whirl of confusion and the suspicious pricking at the back of her eyes, because their daughter, little, hesitant, precious Plutia, had learned to ride, her mind fastened onto one, quite irrelevant thing. The man who couldn’t groom a horse – let alone break it – who couldn’t hunt – who couldn’t fasten up a saddle girth – who had only one hand – had trained a goat to ride?  
“H-how-?”  
“Sugar lumps,” said the king briskly.  
Sugar lumps. And something he cared dearly about. Something he confirmed with a brush of his hand against her cheek, to catch the tear she hadn’t managed to stop. “The pony,” he said, taking her arm gently and guiding her towards the children, “was making you both unhappy.”  
“Papa taught Plutia to ride!” Nikos shouted, extra loud with having restrained himself for a minute. “Good as me!”  
“I see,” Irene managed.  
“Good as Nikos!” Plutia echoed, rising in her stirrups with utter unconcern as her steed tossed and pranced at all this excitement. “And Papa says now I know I can ride anything I want! Pudda and big ponies and horses and camels– an’ – an’ even elephants!”  
“Elephants!” Nikos squealed. “I’ll race you on an elephant!” He leaned over from the totally unexcited Pudda to slap the frisking Royal Riding Goat on the rump. “To the end of the avenue!”  
Two children, a goat, a pony, tore off up the long central walkway, leaving a quiet as stunned and divot-torn as the grass. There was a chair – of course there was a chair – beside the doorway. Irene sank into it.  
“Goat-foot,” she said after a moment. “Goat-foot.”  
That brought a chuckle behind her. “She did need to learn to ride,” said the King of Attolia languidly, as if this was an entirely new thing. Then his infuriating, endearing quirk of a smile flashed out, and he leaned down to forestall Irene’s further comment with a kiss.  
~:~

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Probably not the most in-depth exploration of the Attolian monarchs ever, but hopefully fulfilling the request for happy family fluff :) The idea in part came from BBC archive footage of Queen Elizabeth at Balmoral, leading a Shetland pony with a small and reluctant Zara Philips on it [the Olympic equestrian!], while Peter Philips and Princes William and Harry tagged along.  
> And yes, large goats can be trained to carry small children :)


End file.
